


I'll Love Whatever you Become

by Theboys



Series: Dear God, It's Me, Dean [11]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Sam, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Angry Sam, Bottom Dean, M/M, Omega Dean, Possessive Sam, Protective Sam, Scared Dean, Top Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 13:27:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4393628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean’s wondering if demons take coupons, like buy one get one half off. There’s no way he can afford the entire list he’s been dealt.<br/>Wherein Dean's feeling a touch overwhelmed, and handles it in typical Winchester fashion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Love Whatever you Become

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Falling Away With You, by my favorite band, Muse. Listen if you're actively attempting to make yourself cry.

Sam thinks it’s adorable that Dean’s pilfering all of his flannels.

Dean thinks it’s necessary.

Dean knows that Sam can scent that something’s off, but he’s never been around any expecting omegas before, doesn’t know that the scent is the growing awareness of his pups, a fraction of the way they’ll smell when they’re actually born.

Dean can’t hide it for much longer, and it’s only been a month, as is. He’s been to a doctor, plead fatigue when Sam asked if he wanted to go talk to some hunters about the Gate.

Dean stands, hands curled protectively over his slightly distended abdomen. Sam’s never going to believe that he isn’t in, guns blazing, do whatever it takes to fix their mistake. He had one get out of jail free card, and he’s already played it.

Dean buttons Sammy’s brown and green flannel up to his neck, hands shaking with enervation and shame. No one to blame but himself. Dean presses fingertips to his lips, half sob threatening its way out of his mouth.

So he’s pregnant.

Hormonal.

And on death’s doorstep.

Dean’s wondering if demons take coupons, like buy one get one half off. There’s no way he can afford the entire list he’s been dealt.

Sammy comes around the corner, entire laptop held up to his face, one arm shrugging his way out of his jacket. It lands on a heap on the floor, and it’s a testament to how enthralled Sam is that he doesn’t stoop to pick it up.

“Dean.” He begins, agitated fingers of his free hand reaching out in his brother’s immediate direction, vying for his attention. “Dean, I’m reading about Mephistopheles, from Faust, and there are passages mentioning the Virgin Mary,” Sam pauses, thin fingers flying over the keys. “Don’t say anything, Dean. I know you’re not really religious but, hell, I’ll dip you in a bath of holy water myself if--”

Sam ceases typing and glances up, seems to realize that Dean is not actually making any noise at all. He sets the laptop down on a side table, sparing a look as the wood wobbles precariously, and kneels before his brother.

Dean’s eyes are heavy lidded and grey, and he’s aware that he’s not exactly his best self. Sam reaches up and gently unbuttons the first button on his own flannel, shock of dark hair falling into his face. “Dean, baby, what’s wrong?” Dean watches him twist his hands together, sound of dry skin echoing in the quiet room. Sam places broad palms on Dean’s knees, gripping tightly.

“Are you sick?” He pauses, removing one hand and cupping Dean’s face with it. “Jesus, Dean, I know I’m not supposed to look, but you had to know I was gonna _look_.”

Dean snorts, primitive sound, leans back against the bedcovers and burrows cold fingers in the pea-green sheets. Sam’s hand slips from his face at the action and his eyes narrow in suffering. He rocks back on his heels, entire body slouching, face aging thirty in the span of a minute. “Do you need to be alone? Is that what this is?”

Dean’s heart tumbles roughly in his chest, omega brain reaching out spindly fingers for his mate, grasping at air because Sam’s Alpha is so contained right now. Dean can’t scent a damn thing coming from him. Dean thinks about how effortless it would be. Let Sammy think he needs some space.

Run as far as he can.

Find out what to do about the lives growing inside of him. Carve himself out of Sammy’s chest, put himself back to rights the only way he knows how. Only question is what to do with all of the blood on his hands, when it’s done.

Sam’s growling, he realizes abstractly, and then his brother’s hands are wrapped tightly around his forearms, and he winces in reactive pain. Sam’s eyes are edging, rather speedily, towards aureate, glistening against long lashes.

“You stop that. Stop that.” Sam’s voice rattles through the room, fully Alpha, and his fingernails dig into Dean’s skin so hard they break through, and Dean watches a little pool of blood collect between his brother’s digits. Understands Sammy can scent fear and despair, and he can smell it now, pooling in the air.

He can smell the lively little scents of his children, maple syrup and lilac, tangled together, amplified greatly because of their Papa’s panic. Dean wonders, if he could see them, whether or not they’d be crying. Sam’s hands drop listlessly, and Dean watches his face attentively, can see wheels turning, and consequently clicking in his brother’s head.

Sam’s upright, but still on his knees, hands connected on the nape of Dean’s neck. “Are those--” he licks dry lips, and his eyes are bottle green and warm-colored, roving sporadically over Dean’s whole body. “are those my pups--you’re carrying?”

And what’s Dean got to gain by denial?

He nods his head, cumbersome and lax, pulls his arms around himself instinctively, cradling his children. “I didn’t know it would happen, Sam.” Dean sucks his lip into his mouth with a pop. “Actually, I did, I took sex ed--hands on version, a’course, but I guess I mean to say, I didn’t think about it.”

Sam’s scenting, and Dean wouldn’t be surprised if Sammy didn’t hear a word he’s just said. Sam’s leaning forward, gently dislodges one arm from around his waist, and Dean’s snarling. Sam freezes, eyes wide as he glances up at Dean.

Dean’s cheeks are pink, and he scratches at the back of his head and averts his eyes from his brother’s. Dean doesn’t snarl. Growls, when he’s angry, yells, employs sarcasm like it’s another blade for him to choose between, but this sound is an instinctive one. Omegas are not, by nature, aggressive.

All Dean’s antagonism has been hardwired into him.

Dean’s mind is forcing him to posture, alerting him to a potential threat. Sam removes his hands completely, small smile dominating his face. “Can I, Dean?” Dean feels like about seven different kinds of idiot--it’s Sammy, he’d hack off all his limbs before he hurt anything, especially the things that belong to him.

Dean inclines his head in acceptance, scoots a little closer to Sam to allow him easier access. Sam’s face is pressed against Dean’s still mostly flat stomach in an instant, small growl ripping lose as he fully scents his kids for the first time.

“Two,” Sam says firmly, and Dean rolls his eyes above his brother’s head. “You think I can’t smell my own pups?” Dean says testily, fingers curled in sheets once more.

Sam’s mouth jerks open in a half smile as one of his hands spans Dean’s entire stomach. “Don’t be so uptight. I’ve smelled them for awhile now, just didn’t realize it wasn’t you.” Dean’s startled by that admission. He and his kids don’t really smell anything alike.

Maple syrup smells like Sam, a baby sapling, all sweet and woodsy, and Dean thinks that lilac probably smells like him too, crisp floral scent intermingling with Sam’s pine. Dean’s heart settles an iota. Everything is Sam. Everything he’s got, belongs to him.

Sam scoops him up, briskly, as if he weighs nothing, and Dean’s been losing weight, knows he probably does, placing him directly in the center of the bed.

He casts a fleeting look at his brother, eyes him like he wants to touch, ever-tactual Sammy, yearning and not taking, his mantra.

“Were you not gonna tell me?”

Words spoken quietly, slim thread of Alpha leaking through, and Dean’s suddenly uncomfortably cognizant that Sam’s infuriated. He’s got a tight lid on it, but Dean can smell it. Low banked fire and smoke, wafting in the breeze.

“Didn’t really come to terms with it myself, Sam.”

Sam stands, removing his presence, walks near the beige colored dresser, leans hips against it. “You smelled desperate, earlier.” Sam looks up and Dean’s mortified to realize that he’s crying, Sam, who relegates his tears to the darkness, rocks Dean back and forth with spasmodic gasps.

“You weren’t gonna take ‘em from me, were you? Weren’t gonna take yourself?” Dean pulls his knees up, leans his chest against the front of his thighs. “Ah, Sammy. I’m just tryna do what’s best, here.”

Sam’s nodding, and it’s incessant, like he’s responding to Dean’s words and his own question at the same time. Tangles one hand in his hair and leaves it there, still jerking his head back and forth in a yes fashion.

“I see. I got it.”

Dean doesn’t like that, doesn’t enjoy that in the slightest, and Dean and Omega are sitting up simultaneously, reaching. His omega is screaming--high pitched wails that have Dean shivering in place, he’s never ever had anything within him so frantic.

He’s always had his omega so controlled, it’s difficult to rationalize, with it so free.

_Alpha Alpha, I love you, love you, love you_

Dean’s gasp-crying--what the fuck is this--

but Sammy’s still _nodding_ , backing toward the door, muted muted muted.

“Don’t leave, Dean. Don’t leave. I’ll be back.” He’s gone, and Dean’s head is swiveling around wildly.

what is this

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are the air I breathe.


End file.
